


The Battle that Never Was

by Morpheus626



Category: Doctor Who, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morpheus626/pseuds/Morpheus626
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Creatures unknown to anyone in Middle Earth have begun to invade Mirkwood. Unable to get rid of them on his own, Thranduil must turn to Elrond, Galadriel, Gandalf, and someone utterly unknown to him for help. But if the best elven warriors cannot fight these creatures, then how can one seemingly-mortal man (or Time-Lord) hope to fight them on his own? </p><p> </p><p>Quick warning that there are occasional mentions of wounds and mental trauma. I'm still getting used to the tagging system here, so I wasn't sure how to tag appropriately for this. I'm hoping putting this note here will help in place of the tags, in case this sort of stuff just isn't your cup of tea.</p><p>Also none of these characters belong to me, except for the two OCs. I'm just having a bit of fun with Tolkien's characters and the dear Doctor :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battle that Never Was

**Author's Note:**

> Tried to stay away from OOC-ness for all characters (other than the OCs) but I know my interpretation of these characters is likely to differ from others :) I know this is an odd combination of characters too, but when I started writing it just sort of happened. I'm hoping I handled the cross-over decently. 
> 
> This fic covers days 3-8 of my 30 day writing challenge. The words for these days were: Restlessness, accusation, and snowflake. Considered doing this in chapters, but I think it will be okay as it is. I also want to credit www.realelvish.net for their fabulously helpful name section, which helped me find the names for the two male OCs.
> 
> It has been a long while since I've written fanfic, so please feel free to let me know what you think of this! If you would rather share your thoughts on this through tumblr, I can be found at www.itsalwaysprettiestafterthefall.tumblr.com

He had never realized just how heart-breaking the pained wail of a friend could be. He had read books in which the hero hurt a friend, or watched a friend die, and heard their final cries; the authors always did their damnedest to get across just how much it hurt for the hero to hear such anguish, but those descriptions were nothing compared to the real thing, and as an elf he had never expected to hear such cries. They were immortal; it wasn't supposed to be a part of their experience. His friend cried on, and Condir couldn't help but to weep. 

In the healing tent his friend and fellow soldier gasped and grimaced, one arm most likely gone down the gullet of the creatures they had encountered in the woods, a leg slashed to hell by the mistimed swings from the swords of other soldiers. The worst was his head, half-bashed in it seemed, after he had been tossed by one of the creatures against the blood-soaked ground. It was hard to tell though, with all of the blood, seemingly stuck at a healthy flow that would not stop. The entire healing team was at his side, their normal soft brows creased in worry, even fear, that they could not save his body, let alone his mind. They were hardly prepared for such injuries, after all. Not one of them had expected it all to go so very wrong.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The mission was supposed to be simple. A creature had been spotted within the bounds of Mirkwood by two of Thranduil’s subjects, but only one returned to tell the tale. The decision was made to send a few soldiers into the forest to kill the beast, so no more elves would be lost. This first plan failed miserably, much to the dismay of Thranduil. Only a few soldiers returned, begging, begging, for help, for more soldiers to take the creature on again. When the second group failed as well, despite being twice the size of the first, did Thranduil then somewhat reluctantly make contact with Galadriel and Elrond for help in the matter. 

A general description of the creature and what it did to those who attempted to fight it was sent to both of them, but neither could place it as a known creature of Middle-earth ( a fact that seemed to intensely bother and almost insult Elrond, though the irritation was understandable.) At the behest of Gandalf, who had managed to discover the problem, did Elrond send some of his own soldiers to help fight. Galadriel had remained silent on that end; though Gandalf insisted she would come to their help when it was most needed. So then was the third battle planned, despite the feeling amongst most of the fighting elves that they were bound to fail. 

Elrond had quietly followed his soldiers to Mirkwood, though he stayed out of the battle with Thranduil, both of them instead spending their time in hushed worry and preparation for the worst. Gandalf had insisted upon riding to the Golden Wood, to speak with Galadriel, and if anyone had objected to his doing so then they were too frightened or tired of the whole matter to say anything.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Now, at the end of the battle, both Elrond and Thranduil found themselves in the thick of it, comforting those who had made it out with minimal injuries, passing out needed supplies, and helping to carry in the dead and dying. Elrond had been called immediately to tend to Condir’s friend, Ferveleg, who had been among the worst injured. It seemed now that he would join the alarmingly large pile of dead elves that had been laid near the edge of the make-shift camp, as Elrond found that even he was struggling to heal any of the elf’s wounds; the poison was unknown to them, and all of the wounds seemed inflicted with it. However, after hours of work, they had healed just enough, stanched the blood flow just so, that they could break and breathe and figure out how to truly save the young elf’s life. Elrond washed his hands of the blood, and then sought out Condir, who had lost all sense of decorum and had nearly crawled into the lap of Thranduil, who was seated on the ground beside him. 

“If you are planning on asking him what happened, then you may as well ask me. He’ll not say a word.” Thranduil’s voice was heavy and tired, yet he let a hand fall to Condir’s shoulder at an attempt at comfort. Both Condir and Ferveleg were subjects of his, and though he did not know either of them well they were still as precious to him as any other of the elves of Mirkwood. 

Elrond joined them on the ground, suddenly feeling very much his age, a feeling that terrified him though he would not let himself acknowledge it. He said nothing to Condir, simply studied the terrified elf’s face, so young, not a child but barely past his childhood it seemed to Elrond. Too young to be in battle, though Elrond knew well that age was never an excuse to hide from battle, especially in times of panic and fear. 

After an hour or so, Condir began to speak. His voice shook violently, and at times it seemed his voice would be lost entirely, but he managed the tale all the same. He told Elrond and Thranduil of the assault that had begun without their realizing, the sudden thrashing of leaves and branches before the creatures (“there is not one, but many,” Condir insisted) and then all was lost. The weapons they fought against were better, and the fighters somehow faster. Condir grew restless then, rising on quaking legs to pace as he spoke. Finally he told them of Ferveleg’s near-demise, as one of the furred creatures had grasped the elf and torn away his arm, others had ripped into the slashes that had made their way through his armor and broken them open even wider, and Ferveleg had fallen after his skull was bashed against the ground, with his eyes begging Condir for aid. 

Condir fell and wept at the end of the summary. “I should have gone to him. But we were terrified, all of us. I would have—“Condir gasped for breath “—I should have died for him. To save him, to save more of the others. I should die now, for all the good I have done here.” He crawled into the fetal position in the mud, and wept so that it seemed he might break his ribs with the force of his sobs. 

Thranduil and Elrond set aside their stations again then, and raised Condir on limp legs between them to bring him to an empty healing tent. The healers there tended to him, though his most grievous of wounds had already been looked after. It was his mind that seemed lost, and one of the healers had met Elrond’s eyes with doubt. They could do little to help Condir at this point, and there were worse-injured yet to try and save. From there they went to Ferveleg, to ensure that worse had not happened to him in that time. The young elf was still stable, but he was too pale, and there was still no way to guarantee that his mind would ever recover. Elrond assigned the healers there shifts to watch the elf, in case he should worsen in the time Elrond would be gone. 

“I would save them both. If I could, whatever it might take to do so.” Elrond said quietly, back in the relative safety of Thranduil’s own tent. Thranduil merely nodded in response; he was hardly unaccustomed to losing subjects, friends, and family in battle. But there would be two mothers, waiting for news of their sons, and Thranduil hardly relished the responsibility of informing them that their sons may as well be dead for the condition they were in. 

Thranduil motioned to a scroll left on a small table in the corner. “Mithrandir has sent news that Galadriel may have found help. Outside of our own forces, but he does not specify from where this help is to come from. I would believe him if I could bring myself to, but after what has occurred today I fear that I cannot bring myself to hope for anything at all.” He sat down then on one of the oaken chairs that had been placed in the sparsely decorated tent, and his stress and pain seemed to roll off of him in waves as he collapsed there. Elrond had already taken the scroll from the table and examined it himself, and could not help but to agree with Thranduil. If they could do little to no damage against these creatures, then who else could hope to?  
`  
They spent the next few hours there, both pondering Gandalf’s message and whether it held any actual hope for their situation. Every now and again Elrond would rise and check on all of the healing tents, which were still nearly all full, though those that had been healed seemed to be doing better, and for that Elrond was happy and grateful. The healers had worked themselves nearly to death, but there were many who would now live, and live well, because of that hard work. 

Thranduil had begun discussing plans of their retreat, which would need to take place before nightfall, so that they would have enough time to make it back to the safety of his kingdom. “We have risked these soldiers enough, and if we don’t leave soon—“ 

“Then there will be spiders. And spiders, as I have been informed, are quite awful round here.” A tall, skinny man in a strange coat and trousers had bounded into the room and interrupted Thranduil, who stared at the newcomer in frustration. Before he or Elrond could question the man, Gandalf walked in behind him and smiled. 

“Lord Elrond, King Thranduil: our hope is found.” Gandalf clapped a hand on the man’s thin shoulder, and the man grinned from ear to ear. Both Thranduil and Elrond were less than sure of this sudden addition to their troops, but there was a silent look and agreement shared between them to give Gandalf a chance to explain himself, and the man with the ridiculous hair and grin. 

Before Gandalf could get a word out, the man suddenly shot out of the tent and toward the area of the battle, his long legs seemingly about to break with his speed. Gandalf, Thranduil, and Elrond followed as close behind as they could, with Gandalf stuttering out an explanation as they ran. “He’s called the Doctor. One of the fiercest warriors ever known; though I’d not say that to his face if I were either of you. Galadriel has been in contact with him since the start of this trouble, and he has since claimed he can rid us of these creatures entirely.” The trio stumbled to a halt as the Doctor suddenly braked at the edge of the battle-field; then walked out slowly, his sonic screwdriver drawn in front of him as though it were a sword. 

Thranduil rolled his eyes at the Doctor’s theatrics. “Mithrandir, forgive me, but if the best of our armies could not fight off these creatures, then how can this mortal expect to?” Gandalf raised his eyebrows, and then chuckled in spite of himself. 

“Thranduil, he is not a mortal, not in our sense of the word, though I believe he can die. However, the lady Galadriel has faith in him. I do not believe she would have sought him if she did not trust him to help us.” Gandalf huffed, still trying to catch his breath from their run. Elrond listened with half a mind, the rest of him focused on the Doctor in the center of the field. 

“Oi, I know you’re out there. You can’t keep doing this; the Shadow Proclamation has specifically said so. You've got your own bloody section in the thing, so if you really thought I wouldn't find you…you were very, very, painfully wrong.” The Doctor’s voice reverberated through the trees, and brought forth a few of the furred creatures from their shadows. Thranduil and Elrond automatically reached for their swords, more on edge than ever, but Gandalf shook his head at them, and so they unhappily stayed their hands. The creatures were horrible looking, as bad as orcs, if not worse in their own way. They were covered head to toe in black fur, their faces taken up by overly large eyes and a mouth bulging with sharp teeth. Their claws were stained with blood, and a few had entrails hanging off of them as though it were decoration. Thranduil and Elrond itched to grab their weapons, to fight against the disgusting beings.

The Doctor glared at the few that had been brave enough to walk forth, and shook his head angrily. “I wanted to be nice. I did. It would have been easier for all of us. But what you’ve done to these people is inexcusable. I can’t let this go, and you’ve caught me on a day when I don’t particularly feel sorry for that.” The Doctor adjusted something on his sonic, and then raised it to the sky. All was still and silent, and then snowflakes fat and wet began to fall. The trio at the edge of the field stared up in amazement, and even Gandalf felt a pang of doubt then. Was this all the man could do to try and stop these creatures? But the moment the snow hit the creatures they began to screech in pain, tearing at their fur and searching for shelter. The Doctor’s face was a hard set of lines as he watched them panic and heard the elves and wizard behind him gasp in surprise. 

“I told you there would be no niceness now. No mercy. You’ve killed so many…”The Doctor seemed distracted then, but kept his grip on the sonic screwdriver tight. More and more creatures began to pour from the trees in panic, and a few poked at some device barely visible upon their wrists. Within a few moments, only a handful of the creatures remained. The Doctor lowered the sonic then, and the creatures dropped to the ground and sobbed in joy at the ending of the snow. The Doctor strode toward the creatures; then motioned for Gandalf, Thranduil, and Elrond to follow him. 

“Are these to be left for us then? I’ve no interest in keeping any as prisoners; the sooner they are all away the better.” Thranduil studied one of the weeping creatures as he spoke, and kicked lightly at it with his boot. It screeched, but did not reach out to grab at him. 

The Doctor glared at Thranduil. “No, not prisoners. These ones don’t seem to have their teleporters with them, so I’ll have to help them along. But I needed to speak with you all, before I send them off.” He turned to face them all, standing guard over the sniffling creatures. “Part of how these things invade is to create a pocket in time, almost separate from the normal time-line, but not quite. The point is that when I send them away, your memories of this battle will be gone. I wanted you to be aware of this before I did anyth—“

“What of the injured and dead?” Elrond spoke gravely. He would hardly have the hard work of the healers be forgotten if the injured would stay as they were. He though also of Ferveleg and Condir, both suffering back in the camp, and the lines upon lines of dead upon the outskirts of the tents.  
The Doctor smiled sadly. “The pocket in time will disappear, and they will be brought back. But I can’t say that they will be exactly the same. Some wounds might still be there, and sometimes the dead, when they come back…they aren't quite the right sort of living. Like they've forgotten how, but once read about what being alive is like, and they mimic that.” He shrugged. “I can’t explain it, though I wish I could. But I can bring them back.” 

Elrond contemplated the Doctor’s words quietly. He didn't quite understand this talk of pockets in time and time-lines altered, but he found himself somehow aware that this man knew even more of all kinds of lore than he did, and he found his trust for the Doctor there. He nodded, and the Doctor nodded back absent-mindedly, as he looked at the still-whimpering creatures. He seemed very tired. 

Thranduil seemed to still lack trust in the Doctor’s words, but a glance from Gandalf seemed to reassure him enough to nod in agreement as well. Gandalf needed to give no motion to note his agreement in the issue. With that, the Doctor leaned down and messed about with a device pulled from the inside of his coat. After a few moments of fiddling, the rest of the creatures disappeared. The Doctor stared at the sky, and then smiled. 

“I’m glad I could be of service. You’ll not remember me after this, but even so, if you ever need me again I think you’ll be able to find me. It’s been lovely meeting all of you; I have a few people at home who will be so jealous to hear I've met you.” The Doctor grinned one last time then walked to a blue box hidden amongst the trees. Then there was horrid sound, a ripping and rending, and blackness. 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elrond woke in his room in Rivendell, feeling tired and sad, though he knew not why. He sat up for an hour or two after waking, and tried to find the source of the trouble, but could not. By then Lindir was at his door, knocking politely and mentioning that there were guests begging help and asylum for the day and night, and that they wished to speak with the Lord of Rivendell. Elrond put aside his worries of the unfounded weariness and sadness, and chalked it up to age. The time to sail would be coming soon, and he could feel it in the depths of his bones and soul. For now, he had things to attend to, and a rather panicked Lindir to calm. 

 

Gandalf and Galadriel both greeted the day as they always had, though neither could figure out why Gandalf was there in the Golden Wood, and Galadriel could not recall the day of his arrival. Both found it easier to simply enjoy the visit, and to continue on with the day. The blue box that haunted their memories after waking faded away quickly. 

 

Thranduil was woken that morning by the sound of rough-housing elves. He strode outside in his house-robe to scold the elves in question, but something he could not name stopped him from doing so. Condir and Ferveleg, two of his young subjects had come in search of his son, Legolas, hoping that he might provide Condir with archery lessons, while Ferveleg would look on. Thranduil found himself unable to recall at that moment when and how the young elf had lost one of his arms, but had little time to consider it. There was a kingdom to be woken and run, and if he could find Legolas quickly then he might be able to dress and eat in relative peace, away from the three young elves. If the odd memory of an acidic sort of snow falling from the sky was in his mind, it evaporated as quickly as snow in the early fall did under the noon sun, and he thought no more on the matter.


End file.
